


Cage Around the Sun

by just_kiss_already



Series: Spiraling [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Bloodplay, Dry Humping, Emotional Manipulation, Face-Fucking, Frottage, Kidnapping, Knifeplay, M/M, Rough Sex, Torture, evil Wesley is extra evil, more tags forthcoming as I write it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 05:02:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3755404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_kiss_already/pseuds/just_kiss_already
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Matt follows Wesley outside in episode 3, Wesley appears to not notice, but the man wasn’t hired just for his personal assistant skills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look I have a weakness for how much Matt cries. And when Matt is beaten and bruised. Oh my goodness do I have a weakness. Also, I want Wesley to be even more vicious than he is in the show. Give me Truly Evil Wesley!
> 
> Anyhoot. Unbeta’d except by my own lonesome, so please let me know if there’s any mistakes. And be gentle! I’m a delicate flower, damn it. Lol.

Matt exhales heavily, irritated. Foggy has know him how long and still somehow “forgets” that cleaning up open Chinese takeout would be a little difficult for a blind person. A long night behind him and a suspicious trial ahead. Fantastic. Sweeping the last of the containers in the trash, making a mental note to make Foggy take care of it in the morning, Matt listens, pausing, letting the sounds of the night sweep over him. The hum of electricity in the walls, the hushed whisper of air in the vents, the whisking of tires on the road outside. The quiet of nighttime. Peaceful. Serene after an unpleasant day. He runs a hand through his hair, scratching his scalp, ruffling the perfect part, the first step to the end of a business day. Before he can shrug into his jacket, he stops. Footsteps. Too late for any of the other businesses that reside in the building. And the distinct tick of a particular watch.

The muscles in Murdock’s shoulders and arms tense, his head drops to listen, to sense. The smell of expensive cologne, the chemicals of a freshly dry-cleaned suit, the weatherproofing polish used on the leather shoes. All of it already cataloged in his mind from early. The… mystery man. The nameless man that hired his firm. He was back, and this is not a promising development.

A polite knock at the door. Not as whimsical as it was earlier, this time firm and sensible. Matt can hear his heart, slightly increased from earlier, but barely.

“Mr. Murdock?”

His teeth grind slightly, but it’s impossible now not to respond. The man clearly knows he’s still here. Matt steps out of his private office into the main room. “Yes?”

The door opens and the stranger sticks his head in, looking around, before entering, closing the door behind himself. “I came by earlier, if you remember…” He trails off, still not giving his name, giving nothing.

“I remember, of course, Mr…?”

The stranger smiles, adjusts his glasses. “Forgive me for not giving my name earlier, as a representative of Confederated Global Investments I was simply acting as a proxy, I didn’t want to draw attention away from the business at hand.” Matt struggles not to point out that it did the opposite. While he knows something shady is going on, this still is technically a client. Polite. Must be polite.

“Is there something you needed to discuss? Perhaps about Mr. Healy’s case?” Matt prompts, eager to get to the heart of the matter. Earlier he had come off as slimy, but now there was a whiff of danger.

“Why don’t you call me Wesley, Mr. Murdock. Or may I call you Matthew?”

Dancing, ridiculous dancing around something that was increasingly setting Matt on edge. “Sure.” He's amazed at how calm his voice sounded. His wounds are starting to ache.

Wesley drops his head, his face contorting between drawn brows and a smirk, unbuttoning his jacket. “I was a little concerned about our conversation earlier, Matthew. You seemed… unnerved. Suspicious. And then the abrupt about-face when talking to Mr. Healy. I thought it best I come to you directly, set your mind at ease.” There is a quiet shuffle as Wesley took one step, then another, closer.

“Well, that’s very considerate of you… Wesley… You didn’t need to do that. After talking to Mr. Healy I felt confident in representing him. Clearly he was acting in self-defense.” Matt struggles to keep his body loose, arms at his side, fists unclenched. His pulse was racing and he was trying to get it under control, but between his wounds and the incessant ticking of the watch, the adrenaline coursing through him, the suspense of the other shoe waiting to be dropped, it was impossible to maintain his complete composure.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable with the case, Matthew?” Closer again, head tilted in the facade of worry. “Is there anything at all I can do to belay any concerns?” Closer again. Matt holds still, refusing to give ground, to be forced back into his office.

Twisting his lips into a brilliant smile, Matt shakes his head once and holds out his hand for a handshake. “I think we’re all good, Wesley. Thanks for swinging by, but we’re prepared for the trial. Will I see you there tomorrow?”

Wesley takes his hand, his grip tight and dry, uncomfortably warm. One pump, two, but he refuses to let go. “Well, Matthew, I’m not quite so sure we’re good.”

With a rush, Wesley’s heartbeat rapidly increases and he yanks Matt forward while popping him in the nose with his left fist. Matt is shocked, confused. He had sensed the danger radiating off of him, but Wesley had given no indication of direct violent intent. Matt staggers back a few steps, bewildered, before regaining his balance and bringing his arms up in a fighting stance. But even as he does, Wesley brings his right arm down in front of himself, the back of his fist slamming into the seeping knife wound on Matt’s right side. Crying out, Matt feels the stitching pop, the iron smell of blood and sharp pain filling him; he staggers back again and catches himself on the edge of the desk, bent over it slightly, clutching his side.

The chemical smell is stronger and Matt realizes it’s not just the smell of dry-cleaning. It’s much more, and the cleaning chemicals were just covering it. The cloth covers his mouth and nose and Matt is dizzied, overwhelmed, his enhances senses taking it in too strongly. He elbows back, catching Wesley in the side, but Wesley just grunts and ignores it, wrapping his free arm around Matt’s torso tight enough to aggravate the bleeding wound there; in pain, Matt arches up, his hips and groin being driven into the desk edge. Matt yelps again and tries to headbutt Wesley, but the cloth is almost in his mouth now, the taste of the chloroform or whatever, combined with the smell, making him gag and weep furiously.

As the blackness edges into the corners of his rolling fire vision, he feels more pain. The knife wound on his left shoulder. It had been uncomfortable but now it screams with agony and heat. Wetness. Biting. Wesley is biting him, drawing blood. Groaning, the darkness of unconsciousness fills his red sight, swallowing him even as Wesley swallows his blood.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wesley just loves to play.

Matt wakes up to the sound of a calm, slow heartbeat. His sense of smell is shot, nothing but the afterburn of the chloroform fills his nostrils. Groaning, he struggles to lift his head from the carpeted floor, dragging his cheek hard enough to get a slight burn from it.

“Easy, Matthew,” Wesley murmurs from directly above him. “Take it easy.”

His shoulders are agony and he realizes his hands are bound behind his back. His left shoulder, resting against the carpet, is bleeding, but the wound on his right side is what worries him. It’s bleeding copiously. Matt takes stock. He’s in his boxer briefs and undershirt, his suit and shirt gone. His glasses are gone, and the world around him is distorted, blurry, the fire is everything, making shapes too indistinct to comprehend. His legs are unbound. And he has injuries, new injuries, small shallows ones up his right bicep.

“What…” he pants. “What did you do to me?”

“Your arm?” Wesley asks. He’s crouching next to Matt, the warmth he radiates, on the border of feverish, gives away his proximity. He laughs as if embarrassed. “You’ll have to forgive me, I couldn’t contain myself. I got a little… overanxious.”

Matt grinds his teeth. Buy time, keep him talking, until his mind and senses are clear enough to fight back. “Why are you doing this?”

Wesley inhales deeply and Matt can hear him shifting above him, pushing his glasses up his nose. “You’re a potential problem. I was instructed by my employer to take care of it.” The whisper of fabric and his hand is on Matt’s arm, rubbing the cuts, agitating them until they seep blood again. “He gave me free reign, so I thought… What could it hurt? An unknown lawyer working late at night in this corrupt city? Bound to come into violence.” He leans in, his mouth close to Matt’s ear, his heat searing him. “It’s been a long time since he let me have my druthers, I’m terribly sorry but I plan on making this last.”

The room is resolving itself, the burning waves becoming solid objects, walls and floor and ceiling. Plastic sheeting and uncovered drywall, bare wooden door frames. An unfinished building, new, the carpet is clean against his skin, the electricity is humming evenly, no sounds of insects. There’s a breeze from a distant open window, rustling the plastic, and the sounds of traffic are so far away. They’re alone.

Flexing his shoulders and arms against the zip tie binding him, he takes stock of the strength returning to his limbs. Even if he can’t use his arms, he has the use of his legs.

Heat, burning heat, and Wesley is pressed against his back, leaning over his prone body, his mouth is on his arm, biting the little cuts. Matt chokes back a noise. The biting intensifies, he’s biting so hard it’s as if he’s trying to rip a chunk out of his bicep. It’s Wesley who produces a sound, a smooth and deep groan, and his reaches around Matt’s torso to lift his shirt and finger the cut there.

Matt screams. He can’t help it. The cut is deep and hasn't had much time to heal. Wesley’s middle finger is gliding into it through the blood, playing with the edges before sliding back and forth with a wet sound. At the sound of the scream, Wesley groans again, ragged this time, his slick veneer crumbling under his arousal. Matt can hear his blood racing.

“The more you scream the faster this will go, I don’t mind telling you, Matthew,” Wesley says. “You can end it a little quicker if you give me what I want.”

When the finger withdraws, the heat pulls back, Matthew just lays still and pants, unable to respond. The relief is so stark in contrast to the pain that he can’t think straight for a second.

“Why?” Matt gasps. He lays still, utterly limp, trying to draw as little attention to his body and his injuries as possible, as if he could disappear.

Wesley is a distance away when he responds. There’s a rustle of fabric and Matt struggles to pay attention to what’s going on. “Because I like it, Matthew. Because I've been ordered to make you disappear, and you’re attractive, and I need this.” Footsteps, bare feet this time. “I’ve been so patient, Matthew, it’s been several months now. It’s just not the same watching… my employer… when he hurts someone.” Hands rough on him, flipping him awkwardly onto his back, crushing his hands and twisting one arm terribly, agonizingly. “Now, let me see your face. I like watching your eyes roll around when you’re in pain.”

Standing over Matt, Wesley drops down to straddle Matt’s hips. As he does, Matt twists, bucking him off, bringing his leg up and kneeing him as hard as he can in the back, aiming for his kidney. Wesley falls forward, catching himself, grunting in pain; as he does so, he brings his elbow down on Matt’s face, his mouth. Retaliation. Matt’s lips split and his front teeth feel disturbingly loose in their sockets. Blood fills his mouth and he spits it out reflexively, spluttering in pain.

Wesley sits back on Matt’s legs, pinning them down, holding his side and breathing heavily through the pain.

“You’re a little too excitable,” Wesley says through gritted teeth.

Still unable to smell properly, Matt almost misses the scent of the rag as it approaches his face. Struggling, he turns his head away from the horrible smell, unwilling to relinquish consciousness again. Wesley’s talking, soothingly, smoothly, promising "just a little." Gagging again, eyes watering, Matt’s limbs begin to feel heavy, the fire in his eyes swims and swirls, and he can’t turn his head anymore.

The rag retreats and the weight of Wesley is gone from his legs. Instead, his ankles are zip tied together. The man’s hands leave brands of heat on his bare skin as they slide up his legs, over the cotton of his briefs. At first Matt blanches, thinking he's going to be stripped, but the hands continue up, over his sides, his bruised and mending ribs, up and across his chest. Wesley straddles him again, lower this time on Matt's thighs to hold him still in case he has any more fight in him. But his limbs are made of concrete and he's exhausted, befuddled, unable to act.

"I do love your blindness," Wesley says lovingly, cooing. "Your eyes swirling around as if trying so desperately to see. Frantic. They tell me just how frightened you really are. Are you frightened, Matthew?"

Matt closes his eyes and lies still, unwilling to answer. He won't give him the satisfaction.

A burning hand rests on Matt's side, perilously close to his agonizing injury, and he can feel the man's fingers twitching, eager to explore. He can hear but can't understand the sounds, his mind is in a fog. But when he feels the cold of sharp metal against his chest, he realises Wesley has drawn a knife. 

"I want to make you obey me. Are you prepared to do that for me, Matthew?" Wesley leans forward, the length of his lower torso against Matt's, and the blind man can feel an erection pressing against his hip. "Open your eyes."

There's a pause, drawn out, as Wesley waits for a reponse and Matt refuses to give one. Then pain. The knife slides across his chest, from his sternum to his armpit, a shallow cut with a dull knife, and it's shocking how much it hurts. Pain during a fight Matt can handle, shake off, move past. But this... This one-sided torture, the knowledge that this can go on for hours, days, the rest of his life, without end, without relief...

Still he refuses to open his eyes. His blindness is not a fetish for this oily murderer. 

Another cut in the same location, deeper this time, it feels as though it sliced past the skin and cut into the muscle. 

Matt screams and his eyes open, eyelids fluttering as involuntary tears stream down the sides of his face. 

"Much better."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt struggles to remain stoic, but Wesley has lots of tools at his command.

Wesley is biting him. The intensity of each bite varies every time. Sometimes small nips, pinches almost, and other times bites so big and hard that it overwhelms Matt and he squirms and tries to escape. All he can think is away, away, get away. 

Every so often Wesley reminds Matt in his slick voice, "eyes open," and Matt fights with himself to ignore it. And every time Wesley cuts him again. Mostly on his chest, scoring his pecs, and each time his eyes open faster and faster.

Wesley's mouth has worked its way to the cut marks and he begins to lick them. The salt and heat of his saliva makes Matt scream.

"No," he begs when Wesley pauses, "please, no, stop-" Abruptly he falls silent when he realizes Wesley is grinding his hips against him. Shocked even now--bloodied, tortured, but even now scandalised--Matt loses his voice. 

"Say it," Wesley groans, "beg me to stop."

"... please..." is all Matt can say, his drugged brain lost.

Another groan from Wesley. "Yes, beg me, beg me you worthless trash." He's breathing heavily, wetly into Matt's face, his heartbeat racing, sweat making their skin stick together, and Matt is horrified when he understands how close to orgasm Wesley is. 

"No..." He tries to yell, his throat is so raw though. "N- No!" His struggles renew, trying to throw Wesley off from on top of him, trying to drive him away somehow, but it just gets the other man off even more. The heat of his skin is overwhelming Matt, it's all he can feel, the burning weight of him pushing down as he dry humps him. Wesley grabs a handful of Matt's hair and pulls his head to the side, to better see his face.

"Eyes open!" Wesley barks the command and, without even thinking, Matt obeys. As his eyelids flutter open, the other man inhales sharply and goes still. He still has his slacks on, so the mess is contained, but the shame hangs heavy in Matt, somehow worse than the torture. 

Wesley rolls off of him and sits close by, catching his breath. They both remain still, each observing the other in their own ways. After a moment, calm demeanour restored, Wesley quietly speaks to him.

"I'm going to keep you alive as long as possible. I'm going to kill you friends, your family, one by one. That pretty young lady in your office? She'll be first. Suicide maybe, after the events in her apartment?"

Matt's jaw clenches. While he knows Wesley is trying to get a rise out of him, he also knows this man is entirely capable of it. And of getting away with it. 

"And what about your little law partner? Foggy, was it?"

Matt closes his eyes, trying to block it out.

"Grief over your disappearance. Financial difficulties. No, no, a second suicide would be suspicious. Maybe he'll just disappear, like you did."

The voice is closer and Matt knows he's observing him, watching just how his words effect him. He tries to remain stoic, eyes closes, holding perfectly still. But when he thinks about laying here, alone, while Foggy is out there unaware of the potential danger, his stomach rolls. Foggy greeting Wesley in the office, inviting him in late at night, just as Matt did. He feels a snarl on his lips, his teeth clenched so tight it's painful, tries to smooth it away. 

Too late, though. "I'll find where he lives, I won't even bother with pretence, I'll just break into whatever sad filthy little home he has. Wait for him there." The voice gets rougher, deeper, losing it's slick veneer. "I can't decide, Matthew. Should I kill him in his home and never tell you, or should I bring him here and make you listen?"

"Why are you doing this?" Matt spits past his grinding teeth. 

Wesley is silent, contemplative. "It's my nature," he says finally. "I need your pain. It's just how I am."

"No," Matt shakes his head furiously, "no, that's a terrible answer."

Leaning in, Wesley licks Matt, running his tongue along the side of his face as if to clean off the tracks of his tears. "It's the only answer I have," he whispers. 

Abruptly Wesley stands.

"We have all day, my friend," he says, cheerful. "I am going to clean up a tad then get the supplies I packed. Don't want you to get too dehydrated."

Matt is careful to remain expressionless even as the hope rises in him. Given a few moments alone, in peace, he could potentially figure out his escape. Wesley has kept the torture, mental and physical, constant. The hope is promptly killed, however, when a familiar chemical smell invades his mind and a familiar damp rag covers his face. He tries to hold his breath, tries to fake passing out, but Wesley is patient. After a minute or so, Matt inhales a deep, ragged breath, and the pain and the fear recede.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kindness after cruelty can be confusing.

Wesley is talking. Matt wishes he could stay unconscious longer, but at the same time struggles to understand what's being said. It's a phone conversation.

Dragging his mind to the surface, he forces his lungs to fill and moans, loudly, unable to form the word help but hoping the person at the other end will understand his wordless plea. 

"Ah, he's woken up." A long pause. "I'll be back tonight... I haven't made up my mind, he's very resilient, he might last quite some time." A pause, then a laugh. "That's true, all toys break eventually... Yes, sir... Yes, sir... Understood."

His employer. The one that ordered Matt killed. 

All toys break eventually. 

Matt lets his mind sink back down and float in the fog, drifting, the pain of his body a distant disturbance. It's an eternity of quiet, but it's broken when he feels a burning hand slide up his stomach, his chest, his neck, to cup his jaw.

"Open," Wesley murmurs, his low smooth voice almost soothing at this point without the usual pain that accompanies it. Without hesitation, Matt opens his eyes, and Wesley chuckles. "Good, good boy, but I meant your mouth. Are you thirsty?"

Matt does hesitate this time, a quick list of all the potential ways this could lead to torture, but Wesley's hand squeezes his cheeks, hurting, and Matt's animal instincts cry out in favour of obedience.

Water, room temperature and from a plastic bottle. He can hear the snapping of the cap being opened for the first time, the bottle itself crinkling. Wesley pours a little in his mouth at a time and Matt realizes how unbearably thirsty he is.

When the bottle is empty and Matt is on the border of uncomfortably full, Wesley sets it down and begins to stroke Matt's face, running over the bristle of his beard, gently fingering the bruises around his eye, pressing on his split and bloodied lips. It's soothing, comforting, compared to the knife work earlier. 

"Open again," Wesley murmurs, and Matt can hear his heart speeding up. He can tell something bad is coming. He remains still, letting Wesley stroke his mouth but unwilling to follow this order. "Open again, or I lobotomise you with one of my knives. Right through the eye socket. You'd be amazed how easy and painless it is."

Matt is shocked. Horrified. He'd heard people did it decades ago, knows it is possible.

Slowly, frightened, Matt parts his lips. Slightly. He feels Wesley's fingers slide in, forcing his mouth to open wider, tastes the salt of sweat, the dust and dirt from the building, the tang of his own blood, and a myriad of other things. He tries not to think of it as Wesley's fingers slide deeper in, pressing on his tongue.

The other man leans close, whispers in Matt's ear, "suck them. And if you bite, I will lobotomise you." He's breathing harder, aroused. "It won't save you, you'll still be tied up here and then you'll have to deal with the person my employer sends to look for me. So easy does it, Matthew."

His name never sounded so horrible, so repugnant to him. But he slowly wraps his mouth tighter around the two fingers invading him, takes a swipe with his tongue, unsure what else to do. Unwilling to go further. 

Apparently it's enough. Wesley practically growls with excitement, Matt can hear him palming himself through his slacks. His fingers slide out partway, then back in, repeating the motion, fucking his mouth. Matt closes his eyes in shame and thankfully, Wesley lets him.

The fingers vanish and Matt is thankful, even as he knows something even worse will come next. 

The knife again, this time on his belly, making quick, precise cuts, shallow ones just deep enough to draw a brief but steady flow of blood. Much less pain. Wesley licks his lips before bending over to kiss and lick the wounds. Beneath his mouth, Matt twitches and struggles, not truly in agony but frightened and hurt all the same. 

More cuts on his thigh and the heat of Wesley's breath on his sensitive skin there surprises him, makes him whimper.

Wesley pauses, noticing the slight difference in vocal and physical responses. 

"Mr. Murdock," Wesley murmurs, but it's all he says, thankfully. Instead, there's a rustling of fabric and an abrupt increase in the heat near Matt's side. His face burns with shame when he realizes Wesley has exposed himself, is stroking his cock slowly.

Without the cutting this time, Wesley bends over Matt's thigh and licks the undamaged one, a long stripe that slides up under the leg of his boxer briefs. He continues to lick and kiss up, over the underwear, making Matt shake uncontrollably. When he reaches Matt's hardening dick, he ignores it, instead kissing around it, his breath hot and wet.

"Stop." Matt tries to sound commanding, foreboding, but it sounds like begging. And Wesley enjoys begging.

Wesley rises up on his knees and peels Matt's underwear down, dragging it to his ankles. Panic is setting in. 

"Stop!" he yells, humiliated at his own body's betrayal. Despite all the pain, despite all the agony and the blood and the fear, his cock was still thickening in excitement.

Wesley bends over him, his fingers stroking the cuts on Matt's stomach, breath teasing him, stirring his erection.

"Cut me!" Matt is no longer able to steady his voice. It wavers, it breaks, close to tears. "Wesley, please, cut me more. Hurt me! Damn you, cut me!"

A deep laugh breaks his soul even further. "It never occurred to me that you would enjoy this sort of thing so much, Matthew. You like being hurt. You like not being in control."

"Stop," he begs. "No, I can't... It's a physical reaction, please, don't touch me, for god's sake, Wesley. I'm begging, please, cut me instead! What do you want??"

A single burning finger slides up the length of his dick from base to tip and for a minute he thinks he's going to cum from just that touch. 

"Please, what- Do you want me to call you master? Do you want me to... What do you want? Stop, please-"

Instead of a finger, a burning, boiling, wet tongue slides up, playing with the tip before retreating, and Matt moans, hips bucking. 

"Please," he whispers, but now he's not quite sure what it is he's begging for. His face is contorted, on the edge of tears, of an utter breakdown. "Please stop."

And he knows he doesn't mean it. 

After the suffering and the torture, this gentle teasing, this near-kindness, is shattering him.

Wesley straddles him again, their cocks side by side, squeezed between their two bodies. Matt hears him spit repeatedly into his hand and then that hand is on him, loosely stroking up and down, slicking him. Matt is already on the brink of orgasm just from that.

When Wesley begins to grind against him, their dicks rubbing together even as their hips and stomachs squeeze and rub. Matt knows he won't last long. Unable to fight the rising rush of his own orgasm, he just lays still, eyes open, eyelids fluttering, shame twisting his features just as much as the pleasure. 

"Ah-" he pants, a warning, a plea, please stop because if this finishes then I will be truly damned, but then it's too late, Wesley is leaning over and savaging Matt's mouth with his own, biting the split there, swallowing his blood and his moan. Matt cums furiously, the orgasm locking all of his muscles as he arches up into Wesley. As the spasms wash over him, Wesley pulls away and flips him over onto his stomach on his knees. 

The relief to Matt's shoulder is forgotten when he hears motion and then feels something cold and wet sliding down his ass crack. Matt is more than familiar with this position, having had many women in it before, and he is equally familiar with what he just felt.

Whatever shame was felt before is nothing to this new humiliation. Totally exposed, ass high with his knees spread. He refuses to beg now, though; the time for pleading is past. Now all that is left to him is to survive the experience.

There is no preparing for what comes, though. He isn't sure he will survive. The sensation sends him reeling, his mind retreating from what he knows is happening. Wesley's dick presses against his opening, no preparation or warning, and pushes in. 

Matt grunts, then whines as Wesley continues to slide in, deeper. As the man pulls out, almost entirely, more cold lube is poured on before the length of his dick slides with agonizing slowness back in. The sounds Matt makes come from the back of his throat, from somewhere primal and frightened. This pain, this is a new level of physical and emotional pain, and he's terrified. Surely he can't survive this. 

"Matthew," Wesley moans obscenely, grabbing onto the lawyer's sides with an uncomfortably strong grip. "Matthew, do you want me to stop?"

It takes a minute to draw enough air into his lungs to reply. "Yes." The word is choked and he can't say any more. 

"Beg."

Please," he rasps. "Wesley. Stop. Please."

Wesley pushes him further down until he is flat against the ground, the carpet tearing at his cuts, the wounds bleeding anew. Once he's flat, Wesley spreads out over him and wraps one arm around Matt's neck, squeezing, choking. He can draw a small trickle of air into his lungs, but this coupled with his dizziness from the chloroform turns his limbs into lead. 

The fucking is speeding up and Wesley is panting in his ear, tensing up, completely cutting off Matt's air supply. 

No sounds escape either of them as Wesley cums inside of him with short angry jerks of his hips. 

The pressure on Matt's neck releases, though the arm is still loosely wrapped around him, now as if in a hug. Matt whimpers, struggling to control his emotions as Wesley collapses on top, still buried inside of him.

"I would keep you forever," Wesley whispers into his ear. "What a treasure."

He pulls out with an uncomfortable wet sensation, retreats, and Matt is shocked by how cold and even more frightened he feels now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Playacting. Or is it.

Wesley left and night fell.

He cleaned Matt up before he left, then bound his arms and legs further with rope expertly knotted around the zip ties, and in a surprisingly act of charity fed the lawyer more water and left him with a pillow for his head. 

The quiet of nighttime fills Matt with a sense of relieved peace. The cuts Wesley inflicted on him were fairly light, nothing life threatening, and even the grievous wound on his side had managed to clot for the most part. The building is silent, smelling of fresh plywood, the sound of crickets lulling him into fitful sleep.

At one point, bladder urging him awake, he rolls and squirms awkwardly to the side of the room to urinate, hoping it will simply soak into the carpet and not flow back to him. A little corner of his mind hopes Wesley isn't too mad, but he pushes that thought down and away. 

More fitful sleep. Unhappy dreams, memories of his experience tonight, coupled with horrors his imagination conjures. Frantic, nervous dreams of Foggy under Wesley's horrible knives. Matt prays that Wesley has only gone home, wherever that is, and has left his friend alone. 

As unbearable as the dreams are, he's unable to keep awake, his pain both physical and emotional too great.

Matt wakes when the sounds outside begin to change, birds instead of tree frogs, an increase in distance traffic. Hours spin on, restless, dull. He prays for someone else to come, a construction person or even a junkie, anyone. Help. 

He knows it's futile, but he scream for help. Over and over, his throat getting raw, he cries out. Maybe someone is close enough to hear. Please, God, let someone be close enough to hear. 

The sound of an expensive car gliding across cement, a car door. Matt's screaming ends. He recognises the sound of the car from last night. 

Doors open, slam shut. Footsteps. The smell of cologne Matt knows intimately now. The tick of the watch measuring his agony. 

When the man enters the room, Matt raises his head, turns his face to the doorway so he can see his open eyes. "Wesley," he murmurs roughly. 

There's a subtle pause before Wesley enters the room. Confusion, suspicion. The greeting was surprisingly eager, anxious. "Hello, Matthew. Did you miss me?" The sound of a heavy bag hitting the floor. 

No hesitation. "Yes."

Wesley is silent. Still. Matthew can feel the man's eyes on him. Contemplating that response. 

"Please, come closer?" Matt asks. "I can't smell you." A lie, but a good excuse. 

The quiet footsteps of bare feet; Wesley is already undressing, down to shirt and slacks, jacket and shoes neatly set aside. Wesley stands next to Matthew, near his head, and without hesitation Matt kisses his feet. 

Wesley breaths slowly but deeply with surprise. "Well, you're being quite affectionate today. I'm not quite sure I'm convinced. One day and you're already this pliant?" He kneels down, grabbing Matt's jaw and twisting his head to face him directly. The fingers are tight, bruising, but from eagerness instead of anger. 

"This-" Matt begins, but his voice falters, embarrassed. "This isn't my first time..."

Wesley purses his lips and pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, covering his surprise. "Go on." A tone of command.

Matt lets a little whine enter his voice. "Please, Wesley, I'm thirsty." The sounds of the man rising to his feet, retreating to the bag, retrieving a bottle of water. Matt continues speaking. "After college, another lawyer when I was interning... He... liked to give me orders." Wesley touches his jaw and Matt obediently opens his mouth to let little sips of water in. "I... liked it. I was good at it."

"Thank you," Matt murmurs, turning his face towards Wesley's, letting him see the unfocused motion of his eyes. 

Wesley sits next to Matt's head, staring at him. Thinking, presumably.

"Please..." Matt's voice cracks and he almost is unable to continue with this pretence. Lies on top of lies, he can manage that, has for years with his other identity. This next part is the hard one. "Please cut me again."

There's a strong and abrupt intake of breath above his head. He surprised his kidnapper. Twisting, Matt begins to rub his cheek against Wesley's wool-clad knee. As he does so, Wesley's hand roughly strokes Matt's face, his beard, up into his hair to pull hard. Matt winces and makes a little sound of surprise, and Wesley pulls harder, almost dragging him by the fistful of his hair.

"Did this lawyer cut you?" Wesley hisses. He's aroused, his heart is galloping.

"No." Tears of pain gather in the corners of his eyes. "Only you, Wesley." He forces a lot of false feelings into those words. Meaningful tones. He lets his mouth fall open, oh how women have raved about his gorgeous lips, he licks them once, twice. Also meaningful. 

"I'm going to flay you alive," Wesley pants. "I'm going to skin you." But Matt knows he won't. Not yet, not after the convincing performance he is putting on. Wesley begins to rub lower, roughly running his hand over Matthew's chest and neck, agitating some of the cuts there. 

"Please," Matt whispers. He lets his head loll to one side and is both relieved and horrified to realise his body is responding. At least it would help convince Wesley.

He hears pants being undone, knows Wesley is freeing himself. Again the hand in his hair and Matt struggles to keep himself in check, to appear eager for what is coming. 

The heat of Wesley's dick is burning his face as the man runs the tip of it across Matt's lips. Obediently, he opens his mouth and flicks his tongue out.

Wesley's breath catches in his throat, a strangled moan. 

"More," Matt speaks low, deep, and the rumble is sure to feel good against the sensitive head.

Two hands in his hair, holding him still as Wesley begins to earnestly and eagerly fuck Matt's mouth. The cuts on his lips split open, coating Wesley with blood and saliva; when he sees it, his dick twitches and he fucks Matt even harder.

Matt's traitorous body respond in kind, his own cock hardening, rubbing against the carpet. The friction makes him uncomfortable but ratchets his own heart rate up.

A few more frantic thrusts and cum fills Matt's mouth, a strange taste, entirely new, and he reflexively swallows to get it away. Wesley sounds like his appreciates that, so Matt continues to swallow, draining him dry.

They both remain still for a moment, Matt's head resting on the floor between Wesley's knees. Neither one seems to know how to respond.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> According to plan, sort of.

Wesley has learned quite a lot about Matt's body in this second day, left him writhing and begging wantonly. At first it had all been a lie, playing in the hopes of slackened security, but as the teasing progressed, intensified, punctuated by biting until blood flowed, the slick pain of knives, Matt was confused, reeling, adrift in a sea of total physical sensation. 

The chloroform made an appearance a few times, just enough to make Matt loose and limp, slurring his words, pliable in Wesley's precise hands.

And precise they are. They play with Matt as he weakly begs, eyes spinning, mouth dry. He doesn't even know what he's saying anymore, if he's keeping up the appearance of obedience or not. Matt feels the tightening in his stomach, his legs tensing, as he nears orgasm over and over again, only to be left on the cliff's edge while Wesley forces his dick into his mouth again.

Commands. So many commands. To open his eyes, open his mouth, to roll onto his back or side or stomach. To beg. To beg harder. To spread his knees. To suck. To cry. Beg more. Say it, say please. Beg for my cock. 

And Matt does. As evening falls, it's no longer a struggle to obey. He's eager for it, no he's pretending to be eager, he wants to cum again, he can't help his traitorous body, but God forgive him he wants to feel Wesley inside of him again.

God forgive him. 

A quick break, the quiet night punctuated by Matt's ragged breathing and the sound of Wesley on his phone. Quiet conversation with his employer, at this point Matt doesn't even register it. He's drained beyond the limits of his endurance, laying on filthy carpet that reeks now of blood, sweat, and semen. The air that blows through the open or missing windows throughout the building is chilled, refreshing, drying his skin.

The sharp bitter tang of the chloroform disturbs his peace and Matt gags and begins to cry. 

"N-no, please," he stutters. "I'll be good, I p-promise." His breath hitches in his chest in a quiet sob.

Wesley pauses, Matt feels his hopes rising, but the rag covers his mouth and nose. It's brief again, blessedly brief, taking him to the edge of unconsciousness but not over. Adrift again, Matt realizes Wesley is undoing the ropes around his arms and legs, cutting the zip tie. 

His extremities tingle with the sudden increase in blood flow and he whimpers, unable to move to help relieve the discomfort.

Wesley rolls Matt onto his back and straddles his waist, unafraid thanks to this chemically induced weakness. Taking Matt's limp wrists in his hands, he stretches his arms out above his head before letting go and sitting back to admire the view. Matt is fit, handsome, and his scars and wounds and bruises are obviously to Wesley's taste.

"Please," Matt slurs as if drunk, "please, I'm so tired."

Matt is shocked when Wesley's mouth is on his. The kiss is furious and hard and hurts his bleeding lips. He can't respond much, letting his mouth fall open, and the other man's tongue invades before he begins biting. 

And then the feverish heat, the weight of him, the mouth, all gone. Groaning, head spinning, fire like crashing waves behind his eyelids, Matt manages to roll onto his stomach, trying to gather his limbs under him. 

"Where are you going, Matthew?" The voice comes from his left, cold and leering. Wesley knows his captive can't get far. 

Matt hesitates and the tension in the air crackles like lightening.

The options. He weights the options.

Try to escape. This is the moment he was aiming for. He could potentially overwhelm Wesley even in his impaired state, or at least outrun him. Find an open window and just jump. Surely they won't be that high up, Wesley had to carry his dead weight, even now there's a good chance he'd survive the fall, be able to find a place to hide. Option one.

Option two, wait for the chloroform to wear off more. Incapacitate Wesley, leave. Turn him in to the police. Escape. 

"Wesley," his mouth forms the words against his will, and he tells himself that waiting for his strength to return is the wisest course. "Where are you?"

"Come here," Wesley murmurs, low and silky and throbbing, and Matt's body responds in kind, and he tells himself it's just self preservation. 

He crawls haltingly, stumbling, across the carpet towards Wesley's voice and heat.

Just once more, he promises himself. Once more and then hopefully he'll be able to fight back. Once more to get this sickness of lust out of his system.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath and the lies Matt tells himself.

The hospital sheets are ridiculously rough on his sensitive skin, but Matt is unwilling to go home for fear of what might be waiting.

Shifting his head, wincing at the pain of his broken ribs, Matt listens to his dearest friend snoozing peacefully in an uncomfortable chair and finds himself dozing off as well.

After he'd escaped, after wandering, dazed, for hours on end, rescued by a Good Samaritan that had been taking photographs in that abandoned industrial park, Matt's only thought had been of Foggy and his safety.

He'd ignored the police questions at first, ignored the nursing staff's interrogations, had demanded they find Foggy and bring him here, immediately. Only then would he answer them. 

And clutching Foggy's hand, feeling his accelerated pulse against his skin, Matt had finally answered their questions. 

Unfortunately, it was entirely a lie. 

Mugged after work. Teased by some junkies that thought torturing a blind man would be a hoot. Left for dead in the industrial park. No names, no distinct impressions.

Foggy had been unable to resist commenting on what a terrible witness a blind man makes. 

Matt comforts himself with assumptions and speculation. Surely "Wesley" is a fake name. And he didn't know the name of the man's employer. Foggy would be able to give a description, but what would it matter? The man is hidden, undoubtedly, protected by his powerful employer, nursing his wounds after the fight during Matt's escape. 

And he refused to mention the... sexual component to his experience. It was... extraneous information. Especially if it meant he would have to explain how he'd played along.

Foggy's heart accelerates and his breathing quickens. He's waking up. Quietly he stands, stretches, then goes to the bedside; Matt feigns sleep, curious. He touches the cuts on Matt's lips, holding his breath, his other hand seeking out Matt's. Ever so gentle, Foggy gathers his friend's hand in his own and just holds it, standing there, the weight of his gaze almost uncomfortable. 

Matt opens his eyes, a little part of his mind reminding him of Wesley's newfound zeal for his blindness, but he pushes the thought away with the comforting presence of his dearest friend. 

"I should have waited for you, helped you get home."

Matt smiles a little. "That's ridiculous. You can't walk me to my door every night. Look, it's just a... An unfortunate accident."

"You walking into a door is an accident." Foggy admonishes. "This is something else." His hand tightens over Matt's. After a minute he speaks up. "Do you need anything?"

"No, thank you." He's smiling even more. Despite the pain and, worse, the memories, he's entirely comfortable right here and now. 

The hand over his slackens, about to let go, and a stab of fear lances through Matt. He can't let Foggy go home, but he can't explain why. And... He needs him. He's frightened to be alone. 

Seeing Matt's distress, Foggy leans over the hospital bed, grabbing his hand again. Matt can feel the way the pillow dips above his head under the weight of Foggy's arm as he leans down over him. 

"I'm here," Foggy whispers. "I'm right here, Matt." He squeezes Matt's hand and it hurts, he almost broke his fingers during the fight to escape. Foggy squeezes again, reassuring, and the pain shoots up his arm, sweat beading on his forehead. But he doesn't complain.

No, in fact, he rather likes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't able to incorporate it into the story, but this is Wesley's time spent when he leaves for the night. He lives in an apartment on the floor directly below Fisk's, first of all. Fisk allows Wesley to have a new plaything every so often, usually only for one or two nights before the demands of Fisk's life requires his right hand man again. Whenever Wesley does have a new plaything, when he goes home for the night, he tells Fisk over dinner what transpired in detail. Glorious detail. Nothing comes of it, though Wesley often needs to jerk off afterwards. Fisk simply excuses Wesley and finishes his dinner in silence.


End file.
